Friday, September 13, 1901
Walter and Harry knew the second they stepped off the train.
William McKinley was dying.
Just the day before, the president’s blood tests once again showed “not a trace of blood poisoning,” and his doctors proclaimed that, finally, less than one week after he’d been shot, he would be given food by mouth. He was running a low fever, 100.4, but his physicians were confident that his body was simply working overtime in its effort to heal his wounds.
Twenty-four hours later, everything had changed. They could see it on the faces of those milling about but, even more, could feel the sense of dread and doom that permeated the terminal. Walking across the open waiting room, snippets of overheard conversation filled in the story. President McKinley had indeed been given beef broth, some toast, and coffee the day before and had enjoyed it so much that he had asked for a cigar. The doctors had denied the request but were heartened at the president’s robust enthusiasm. But a few hours later, McKinley had felt ill—the doctors said merely that the food had “disagreed with him.”
His condition had deteriorated rapidly from there and by two in the morning, while Harry and Walter were bouncing around on the train, trying to get a couple of hours sleep, President McKinley was reported as being unconscious and near death. Now, just after eight, the president was hanging on to his life by the flimsiest of threads. The doctors had been reduced to praying for a miracle, but each of the three who had remained in Buffalo was reported to be dumbfounded at this turn of events. They had been certain the president was recovering. McBurney had returned to New York City and there was no mention of whether he would return. Both Harry and Walter would have given odds against it.
Fitting for the mood, thunderstorms had been pounding Buffalo for twelve hours, and another struck during the carriage ride to Milburn House. Neither Harry nor Walter talked of McKinley’s impending death and the man who would move into the White House if it occurred. And another man, now sitting in the Buffalo jail, would most certainly die as well, taking whatever secrets he held as to the inspiration for his crime with him.
Rain continued to pelt down as the carriage pulled up to Milburn House, but neither Harry nor Walter quickened their pace to the front door. Wilkie was waiting for them just inside. The linen suit had been exchanged for one of dark gray wool. His expression was even and unflinching—he did not even seem to blink. When Wilkie saw Harry and Walter enter, he flicked his head ever so slightly left and turned to walk in that direction
The same conglomeration of operatives and Buffalo coppers were standing around as for their first visit—minus Smith and Jones—but this time they had been joined by a small army of nurses in white scurrying back and forth and up and the down the stairs, although Walter had not the slightest idea what they were doing. He had a feeling they did not either.
Wilkie went into a small anteroom off the hall and closed the door behind him when the other two had entered.
“Any hope?” Harry asked.
Wilkie shook his head, just once slowly to each side. “Officially, there’s no change, but I don’t think he’ll last out the day.”
“Shit.”
“What’s the matter, Swayne? I thought you wanted Roosevelt.”
Harry took two steps toward Wilkie, his right hand balled in a fist, before Walter could intercept him. Wilkie hadn’t backed up a step and never let his eyes go off Harry’s. That made Wilkie either extremely brave or extremely dumb.
“Fuck you,” was all the Harry could get out.
Wilkie nodded. “Okay, Swayne. I just needed to make sure.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“We’ll get to that. But first, tell me about the two guys.”
“Beech and Jones?”
“Yes, Swayne. Who else? But you might as well stay with Smith and Jones. There’s no record of anyone fitting that description named either Gardner Beech or Ezekiel Jones. Certainly not with anyone who could have gotten them in here.”
“So they used aliases to cover up aliases,” Walter mumbled.
“Aliases are pretty standard, wouldn’t you say, Mr . . . George.”
Walter just glared, wondering whether Wilkie tried to make himself detestable or it just came naturally.
“All right,” Wilkie went on, “let’s get this straight. We’re going to have a new president and we’re left trying to figure out what really happened to the old one. That’s all I’m interested in. I know you two, and just about everyone else in the division, hopes they’re going to get to work for someone else. Maybe you will and maybe you won’t, but as long as I’m in charge of this investigation, I want it done right. Which means that if you or anyone else wants to cut corners, I’m the guy who’ll hold the scissors. Either of you have any problem with that?”
Harry and Walter glanced at one another, but neither spoke.
“Good. So . . . Smith and Jones. We checked all the telegraph offices. No record of a telegram being sent to either of them.”
Walter would have been surprised if there had been a record.
“So right now, they’re just a couple of ghosts, right? Any way to give them a little meat?” Wilkie at least had begun to sound like a lawman.
“How about we show their pictures to the coppers around here?” Harry suggested. “We don’t have to say why.” That wasn’t going to do any good, Walter knew but didn’t say.
“Sure, Swayne, but it isn’t going to take very long for even Buffalo coppers to figure out why you’re asking. Question is whether they’ll own to it if they recognize these guys. And what about the woman? Kolodkin isn’t it?”
“We think she was killed by Smith and Jones to make sure she didn’t talk.”
“I meant the other one. Natasha. You knew her pretty well, didn’t you, George?”
When Walter didn’t reply, Wilkie barked out a laugh. “I’m from Chicago, George. I have a lot of friends there.”
“She skipped.” Walter told Wilkie about their meetings and the note, leaving out that she’d spent the night in his room. Didn’t matter. Wilkie had already guessed.
“Okay,” Wilkie said when Walter had finished. “So we know Czolgosz was put up to the job, and we know he thought he was part of an anarchist plot. So, likely, did the Kolodkin woman that was killed, and maybe her sister too. Smith and Jones were probably involved in the setup, but the Kolodkin woman ducking out puts the anarchists back in the picture . . . maybe. That about right?”
“Yeah.”
“But you don’t think it was the anarchists, do you George?”
Walter shook his head.
“You think it was the vice president.”
“What?”
“Come on, George. Stop treating me like I’m a dunce. Maybe you want to ask him personally if he had anything to do with it. He’ll be on his way here later today.”
“I never said . . .” Walter turned to Harry who didn’t turn back.
Wilkie put up his hand. “Forget it, George. But tell me . . . if this wasn’t the president and vice president of the United States we’re talking about, would you think that the number two was a suspect if the number one got shot?”
That, in fact, had been exactly what Walter had thought. “I’m not certain. You couldn’t eliminate him . . .”
“No,” Wilkie replied. “You couldn’t.” He removed his glasses, polished them, and returned them to the bridge of his nose. “Well, it’s your investigation. You’d better find out one way or another. If it is Roosevelt, we can’t have a murderer sitting in the White House, no matter what his pedigree.”
And then you get to keep your job, Walter could not help thinking.
The second they were outside, Walter went at Harry. “Where did he get that from? We never said anything to anyone about it being TR.” Walter took a beat. “At least I didn’t.”
“I don’t think I like this, Walter. You think it was me?”
“No, Harry. But it wasn’t me.” Walter thought to Wilkie’s crack to Harry about preferring Roosevelt and how Wilkie hadn’t flinched when Harry came at him. Could it have been a setup? Harry?